


Fucking with my heart

by phrynne



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Auror Harry Potter, Blow Jobs, Casual Sex, Cigarettes, Consensual Sex, Denial of Feelings, Dom/sub Undertones, Draco Malfoy smokes, Falling In Love, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Harry Potter, Porn with Feelings, Post-War, References to Depression, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, Smoking, Substance Abuse, Switching, Unspeakable Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 15:47:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17511422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phrynne/pseuds/phrynne
Summary: You stand there, too close to him to be proper, the drink burning down your throat and you finally wonder what you’re doing at 2 am in Draco Malfoy’s apartment.





	Fucking with my heart

**Author's Note:**

> I've been missing your clothes on my floor  
> And your passion behind closed doors  
> You keep fuckin with my heart
> 
> — Elektrik People

  
White hair, white shirt, rolled up sleeves, a flash of white skin, a cloud of white smoke from the tip of a white cigarette. He could be a ghost, if not for the very real look he gives you, beyond the glass doors that separate the both of you. For a fleeting moment, his eyes are on you. You’re sure that no ghost is this invested in live matters.

You blink and it’s all it takes for the spell to break. He’s already looking away, over the balcony. A strand of his hair falls over the right side of his face.

‘I don’t get why he’s here.’

The rest of what Ron is saying sinks into the background noise. You nod out of habit. These days, it’s all background noise anyway.

It’s the three year anniversary of the end of the War. The annual party is a formal and unavoidable business — as usual, you’re the guest of honour. As usual, you feel like suffocating.   

‘How many times do I have to tell you he’s changed?’ Hermione turns to Ron, her voice rising above the incessant babble in the room. ‘We work together now, can’t you make an effort—?’

You nod your agreement, quite suddenly thankful to her, even if you don’t exactly know why. Ron gives you a contrary look, but you lose track of the conversation.

It’s all too much. The fixed smiles, the thousand handshakes, the formal attire, the glasses of fancy champagne, the too bright lights, the names of all of the fallen, which you repeat year after year in your speech, the memories, always the memories, the eager faces of the crowd looking up at you and you wondering: what are they looking at? It never ceases to make you sick to your stomach.

‘I’ll be right back.’

You don’t know if they heard you, but you’re already walking to the glass doors, your feet taking you there.

The cold night air is blissful. The buzz of voices fades behind the closing doors. The quiet and dark suits you better of late. It’s something you seem to have in common with him.

He doesn’t turn to look. You stare at his lonely back, down the long line of his black-cladded legs. Muggle formal clothes. He never wears robes to these things and you find it intriguing, strange. You always thought of him as one to follow proper etiquette.

You reach the balustrade, your hands on the cold stone. Down bellow, the trees form long dark shapes like a garden of stone. You can breathe for the first time in hours.

He shifts beside you, turning around and leaning against the balustrade. It occurs to you he’s doing it so the smoke doesn’t bother you.

‘It’s fine,’ you say.

He takes a deep drag of his cigarette and glances at you briefly. He looks intangible and so real at the same time. There’s no reason at all for you to feel this comfortable around him. No matter what Hermione says, the truth is you don’t know him. Not really. You cross paths at the Ministry, on the usual pub night and on formal occasions like this and none of you does more than acknowledge the other with a nod. But in all those times, there’s something about his silence that comforts you. It makes you feel like you don’t have to pretend.

He inhales, the bright tip of the cigarette pointing upwards. It occurs to you just then that some people turn smoking into an art form. You don’t know much about art, but you get it’s the sort of thing you can lose yourself in. A good book. A good film. Even a museum. The sort of place where you go to forget there’s a wide messy world around you, even as you dive deep into it.

You think it’s all in the way he holds the cigarette, negligently, with his long pale fingers. His lips separate briefly, then close. It’s decadent and so very alive.

You realise he’s finished when he vanishes the stub. He does it with a clever movement of his fingers. The flicker of magic makes the hairs on your arms stand on end.

He takes out another cigarette from a silver case. You wait for him to light it, but instead he holds it in front of you. Before you can think it over, you’re leaning forward, your lips closing around the tip. His fingers twist again, you inhale, the other end of the cigarette alights. You nearly shiver. The smoke exits your nostrils and you try not to cough. You rarely ever smoke.

You don’t know how long you stand there, but when he finally turns to leave without a word, your hands are cold and you finished three more of his cigarettes. There’s a soft trace of vanilla on your tongue.

Inside, the lights look dimmer, the ballroom nearly empty.

The glass doors close behind him.

The party is over.

 

*

 

After every party you die.

You can’t quite sleep, not even with your usual dose of Dreamless Sleep. You lie in bed all day, in your pyjamas, staring at the ceiling. You ignore the frequent buzz in your Floo downstairs. Hermione shouldn’t worry, really.

You nurse the slight hangover with coke and pizza. The headache stays. You want a smoke, but leaving the bed is not a possibility.

You wonder when will it all stop.

You wonder when you’ll be seeing him again.

 

*

 

Turns out, it’s sooner than you expect.

There’s a fundraiser in downtown London, nothing fancy, but you’ve never been this bored in your life. The muscles on your face hurt from all the smiling, but you thank Merlin for the flow of drinks, empty glasses being easily exchanged for full ones.

You realise you’re looking for him the minute you spot him.

Heading for the balcony, cigarette already between his fingers, white blond hair falling over his right eye. You drain your drink and set it on a passing tray.

This time, when you close the doors behind you, he turns to look back. He does a quick swipe of you, his face saying nothing. You have the distinct feeling he was waiting for exactly this.

He extends a cigarette, in a sort of greeting. You take it, your fingers brush. He lights the tip with wandless magic. The shiver begins in the pit of your stomach and spreads everywhere in your body. You’re starting to accept things you can’t control.

You both finish the cigarettes in the same loaded silence. You wait for him to reach for his silver case again, but he doesn’t. He also doesn’t leave.

The silence stretches between you, alive and breathing.

A single thought takes over your mind. It’s a long, crazy shot, but you haven’t slept in two days. In for a penny, in for a pound.

‘Want to get out of here?’

He is completely motionless for so long, you start to doubt he’s even heard you. But then, he simply nods. It’s so subtle you think you imagined it, but he’s already walking towards the doors, turning back to look at you and something in his eyes is different. Expectant.

You follow him out.

On the streets, he walks coolly and resolutely. He turns left, then left again and you realise he’s going to the Apparition point closest to where you are. Expectation sits in the back of your throat.

He stops suddenly and turns back so fast you almost fall into him. His hand catches your arm.

‘Mine?’ He asks, so quiet.

The single word rings in your head like a siren call. You didn’t know what you were expecting, but this was and was _not_ it.

‘Yeah.’ You say.

You don’t think about what it all implies. You don’t think at all when his fingers close on your wrist. His hand is warm. It takes you by surprise.

Then you feel the pull of magic and you both swirl away.

 

*

 

Belatedly, you wonder if _mine_ means the Manor.

But you land on a very different place, a spacious living room of soft white and soft grey. _His place_. You look quickly around you to find a mix of sophistication and comfort. Sofas, chairs, bookshelves, everything in its place.

Without a word, he drops his coat off on a hanger on the other side of the room. You follow him in a sort of haze and hang yours too. His coat is dark grey, clearly expensive, all straight lines. Yours is an old favourite, light brown and showing way too many signs of use.

You hear him by the drinks cabinet. He doesn’t ask you what you want, but fills two glasses with whisky. It’s a Muggle brand, probably a very good one. He leaves your glass on the table next to him and takes a sip of his drink, leaning against the wall. All his quietness and presumption should make you uncomfortable. It shouldn’t be making you walk over to him, pick up the glass and empty it in one go.

You stand there, too close to him to be proper, the drink burning down your throat and you finally wonder what you’re doing at 2 am in Draco Malfoy’s apartment.

He sets his drink on the table with a definitive clink. Then he takes your glass and sets it aside too. With your hands empty, you become aware of the fact that there’s nothing standing between you and him.

His hand brushes the collar of your shirt, his fingers already starting on your buttons. You stop him, your hand over his.

‘Is that a no?’ He asks.

His voice is even, soft, it washes over you and for a second you imagine it on your ear, slow and sweet, making you do things.

You want him. You’ve been wanting him late at night and it must be quite obvious because he’s brought you here.

‘No.’ You say.

He looks blankly at you.

‘It’s not a no,’ You clarify. ‘I want to. I just—’

You just didn’t think he was within reach and now his hands are on you. You clear your throat.

‘Yes. I want this.’

The words work like a spell. His eyes turn to a darker grey, your lips part and your hands fall down at your sides. Slowly, methodically, efficiently he unbuttons your shirt all the way down. You have no doubt he’s done this countless times before: undressed helpless, willing men in this same living room, and they probably let him do anything. You can’t quite understand the direction of your thoughts, but then you’re already half naked and he’s dropping your shirt on a nearby chair.

His eyes make a slow trip of you. You blush like it’s your first time under the hands of a man, even if it’s not.

The first place where he kisses you is your neck. It’s soft, barely there, but it makes you gasp. Your hands catch on his arms and his lips are warm, trailing down your neck, over your shoulder and up again, his hands on your hips, on the loops of your trousers, pushing you closer. His breath on your neck, his warm tongue there, so sweet. You bite down a moan, he pulls you flush together. You were never this aware of getting slowly hard. It’s always been something you notice after the fact. But now you are aware of the way there, and of him, getting there too.

He kisses the other side of your neck and you melt, your hands drop down to his arse, it’s perfect, Malfoy is so gorgeous, in fact, he’s the most gorgeous man you ever made out with, because that’s what you’re both doing. Making out. On his living room. It’s the slow build-up of it all that surprises you the most. He’s taking his time with you, he isn’t in a rush to remove more of your clothes even if you’re slowly starting to feel trapped inside your trousers.

He turns you both around and your back is against the wall. He steps back, his lips red and moist from kissing you, his hair a bit disheveled. It’s like he’s accessing you, wondering if you might do, wondering how far you might want to go and you want to tell him - _everything, anything, try me_.

One minute goes by, two. It’s excruciating, but you won’t move unless he tells you to.

‘Unzip.’

The order goes through your veins, a rush of adrenaline. Your hands tremble on your trousers but you manage to do it. You hesitate on the hem of your pants.

‘Leave them,’ he says, eyes fixed on your bulge, and fuck, he licks his lips.

Then he drops to the floor, kneeling there, right in front of you.

‘God.’

You’re not religious, but nothing else occurs to you.

His lips stretch in a sort of smile. His focus shifts entirely to your cock. His lips part. He breathes deeply and the warmth of his breath sips through the fabric of your pants. Even before he moves to do it, you know he’s going to be good. So good at it.

He rubs his face against the hard line of your cock. It’s maddening, even with your pants still on. His hands rest on your thighs. You fight back a half-moan, half-scream. The sight of him, all formal and upright on his knees and, at the same time, his face, so focused, so pretty, lodges itself on your mind. You like him like this.

His tongue darts out to lick over your pants. You try to rub against him, to get some more friction, but his sweet hands keep you in place, pinned to the wall, and of course you already knew he would be like this.

You also know you’re going to do whatever he wants.

You watch him lick, suck and rub against you. You don’t dare to put your hands on his hair, even though you’re dying to.

He looks up and his mouth opens and closes, tight, around the tip of your cock. It’s warm and perfect, the right kind of pressure. His tongue does wonderful things there, finding your sweet spot. Your pants feel damp, you wonder if he’s going to take them off or make you lose it like this. He’s clearly not in a hurry to finish you off. He takes his time sucking you through the fabric, looking up at you, molten silver eyes, that strand of wild hair brushing his face. There’s no warning, no build-up. Your body tenses, your mouth hangs open in a silent scream and you come in your pants.

You’re shaking, trying to hold yourself up without touching him. He laughs. It’s a short, breathy thing, so unexpected. You want to listen to it again.

You both make the wandless cleaning spells at the same time, your magic fusing up, entangling. He gets up. All of a sudden you feel quite awkward. The last time you came in your pants you were a teenager who knew nothing of sex.

He surveys you, his eyes still unreadable, though his cheeks look warmer.

‘How long before you can go again?’

It’s so blunt, it shouldn’t be so hot. Your eyes drop to the line of his crotch.

He is so… hard.

‘Give me ten minutes,’ you say, out of breath.

But in reality you think it might be half of that time if he touches you again.

He steps away from you. You wonder if you said anything wrong.

He walks over to his coat, searching for his cigarette case. You surprise yourself by stopping him on his tracks, your hand on his arm.

His mouth forms a very thin line of contempt.

You don’t exactly know what you’re doing, but your hand brushes his cheek. You pull that strand of startling blonde hair behind his ear.

And you kiss him.

Years later, you’ll still remember this kiss.

The little gasp he makes, the muffled surprise, the taste of his lips, his mouth opening up to yours and the moment he surrenders. His hands fist your hair, yours go everywhere on him. You kiss him not realising you’re moving, until his back hits a wall and you pin him there and keep kissing him, drunk on his taste — whisky, vanilla, but mostly _Malfoy_ — your breaths going fast. You want him on a bed, you want —  you struggle on the buttons of his shirt, your hands traveling the length of him. He’s all edges and bite, but he’s also pliant, nearly sweet. He kisses you back and you don’t miss the way it feels so desperate. You palm him through his trousers. His cock fits in your hand so perfectly. His moans are something of a dream to you. Because you dreamt about this. You dreamt of this _exact_ noise he’s making into your mouth, half frantic, half demanding. You think of apparating the both of you to his room, but you’ve never been here before and you’re so dizzy. He’s already walking you back, out of the living room.

In the hallway, you manage to get his shirt open. Your hands stop on the stark-white scars you made all those years ago.

‘We don’t have to talk about it,’ he says, matter-of-factly.

But there’s a bite to his tone. He’s mad at you for ruining the moment. You’ve been meaning to have this conversation before, you just didn’t know how to start.

Your eyes dart over to his left arm. Of course, it’s still there. An ugly scar of cold-white. He doesn’t try to hide it from you. You care nothing for what’s left of the Mark. It says nothing about him anymore. But those scars on his chest, the scars you left there…

His mouth crashes over yours. You swallow the guilt by letting him kiss you silent. He licks your lower lip, then his teeth sink there, biting. There’s a hunger in him that feeds your own. You nearly lift him off his feet and he pushes you into another room.

He untangles from you to light the lamp by the nightstand. It gives off a dimmed light, filling his room with shadows. There’s a large, and (you can bet) comfortable bed at the center, sparse decoration, but you can’t pay attention to any of it.  

He lets his shirt drop on a chair. He sits, unties his shoes, takes off his socks, his trousers and his pants. He’s intent, unashamed.

He stands up, stark naked and so hard.

He looks you dead in the eye.

‘Are we doing this?’

You can’t keep down a nervous laugh. He’s easily the most beautiful man you’ve ever been with. But that’s not what’s making you feel this way.

You decide to sit on his bed and take off your clothes. You’re not self-conscious about the way you look, but you’re so thoroughly aware of his eyes on you, you’re shaking a bit.

‘How do you want me?’ You ask, standing up, fully naked.

He considers you for a moment.

It all feels like an official proceeding of sorts. But it also feels intentional. None of you rushing to do it, no drunkenness to blame later. He walks over to you.

‘To be honest,’ he says, sounding casual. ‘I always thought of you fucking me.’ He pauses, then adds. ‘Hard.’

You swallow.

‘Right,’ your voice comes out hoarse.

He’s so close to you, but still he doesn’t touch you. He’s waiting, daring you. You’re both standing on the edge, wondering who’ll be the first to drop. But you don’t want to drop. Not with him. You’ve fallen into bed with enough strangers, just to let some steam off. You’ve had your share of men, some women here and there. Lately, you’ve been more of a loner. Dating is a nightmare when you’re, well, _you_ and people think they’ll be dating a hero. Random shags are tiresome after a while.

But with him… it’s not random at all. It’s always been a slow dance between you. And an unpredictable one at that.

You lean into him, kiss the corner of his mouth. You do it softly. Tenderly, even. His fingers dig into your hips. You kiss him with slow purpose, your hands on his face. It’s way too sweet, you know this, but he doesn’t stop you. Your fingers brush his scalp, his hair. He pulls you closer, towards the bed. He lies back, you climb on top of him, kissing the nape of his neck, his hands on your shoulders. Your face rubs over his chest, you lick over his nipple. His hands drag down your skin, press on the small of your back, trying to push you closer, to find the friction he needs. You don’t give it to him. In fact, this isn’t the hard fuck he asked for, this is something else you didn’t know was there.

You suck his nipple into your mouth. You try to do it as thoroughly as you would his cock. He arches off the bed, his thighs wrapping around you. He bites on his lip. His skin starts to feel damp under your hands and your tongue, his scent more acute now, like elderflowers and something else you can’t identify — only, that it’s driving you _mad_.

He moans into your neck, his fingers dig into your shoulder blades. He shifts, and impatiently pushes your hand down, your fingers finding his hole. He closes his eyes, murmurs a sequence of spells for protection, deep in concentration. His magic rubs against your skin, makes you heady.

The last spell is different: it leaves your fingers sticky and wet. You circle his hole.

‘Go slow,’ he whispers into your ear.

Now that you’re in bed, he’s finally talking to you. You do as you’re told, working him open, first with just one finger, pushing slowly in and out, his body allowing you in. Two, he says, not long after. You scissor them, curl them up. He likes it. It feels like a dream. _More. There. Yes. Easy. Like that. No, slower. Careful. Yes. Again. Deeper. Fuck._ He sounds exactly how you imagined it. Breathless, insistent, aroused. You can feel his cock achingly hard, trapped between you two. You pay no mind to it and you open him up like you never did anyone, taking your time, using your fingers until he’s unable to order you around.

Then, you use your tongue. He curses as you take your fill of him. Whatever happens after this, you think wildly, there will be this file lodged in your brain containing things Malfoy likes in bed. How he likes to be fucked. How he tastes. How he takes it so good. It’s a stupid thought, but you feel insanely happy about it. Your tongue sinks into him, he’s incoherent, the taste of him makes your head swim, the bed seems to shift under you, the walls of the room fall away, everything is warm and slippery and he’s pushing against you harder, deeper.

You know he’s ready, but you keep stretching him with your tongue and again with your fingers. He arches off the bed, bites off a scream, you think of swallowing his cock like this, making him spill in your mouth, but you know what he wants and it’s not that. Your fingers slip in and out of him, there’s no resistance anymore. He’s quivering, loose, so soft, it’s like you could break him if you wanted to, but you also know you might still cut yourself on his edges. Your fingers slip out of him, he whimpers. The room is spinning around you and your movements seem slow. Your cock rubs against his hole. You slick it with another wandless spell. It’s a slow slide into him. He grabs your arms and you sink deeper. It’s maddening, the way he adjusts minutely to you. He looks up. He doesn’t say it, but you grab his wrists and press them to the bed and with that  you push deeper inside him. His mouth drops open, his breath warm on your face. He can’t touch you, but he’s spread open, like he was made to be fucked by you.

You know you’re not his first, nor will you be his last, but you can’t believe he looks like this to them too.  

‘Say my name.’ You whisper.

He won’t, he’ll refuse, it’ll sound too intimate, and that’s not what this is.

‘Harry.’

His voice is like a drug. It’s everything. You pull all the way back and then you push into him in one slow slide. You stop there, your arms trembling.

‘Again.’ You say.

He opens his eyes, lets out a breath.

‘Harry.’

In a daze, you draw back and drive back in. He moves his hips, meets your thrusts. His eyes are unfocused. The grey in them is nearly blue at the corners of his irises.

‘Say it.’

You hit his prostate.

_‘Oh— Harry.'_

It’s too good. The way he speaks your name. The way it all feels impossible. You fuck him with slow, deep thrusts. You end up kissing him again, his hands still pressed to the mattress. He pushes up against you. You’ve never been this long inside anyone, never so aware of the slow climb towards release, never so intent on making someone lose it. You love the way he looks at you. Like he sees into you.

‘Harry.’

He’s sweaty, out of breath. You want to tell him how beautiful he looks, how you can’t look away from him, but you’re sure he’s heard that before, so you keep your mouth shut and you fuck him. He tightens hard around you. You’re standing on the edge, he drops. His teeth sink into your shoulder as he comes, his come splattering your skin, his whole body coiling around you.

In the end, it’s not a drop from the sky to you. It’s a wave and you feel it coming. He blinks up at you. His lips brush yours.

You scream inside his mouth, a low, guttural groan.

Sweet oblivion.

 

*

 

Not ten minutes later, you're dropping face down on your own bed.

After you came, you took some time to start breathing properly.

You laid on your back and watched him summon his wand and make the cleaning spells on the both of you with his usual efficiency. He then accioed his pack of cigarettes from the living room. He caught it with one hand and you watched him light one cigarette with slow purpose. This time, he didn’t offer you one.

He exhaled the smoke and, without looking at you, said: ‘I have an early morning.’

The words were clear enough. You gathered your clothes, got dressed and Disapparated right there. He didn’t even lift his eyes.

Now you’re watching the darkness inside your eyelids, thinking this is it. That’s all there is to it. An otherworldly shag.

Reality will be resuming shortly.

But you still have his taste on your mouth.

You turn on your bed, completely dressed. Shadows play on your walls. You should get undressed, but it’s too much trouble.

You consider the flask of Sleeping Draught on your nightstand.

You're still considering it when sleep drags you under.

 

*

 

As it turns out, you were wrong. That’s not the end of it. It’s more of a beginning.

It’s the last thing you expect, but he’s the one to come looking for you the next time. And the next. It becomes a thing.

Long formal functions stretching into long hours of you waiting for his sign to follow him, waiting to know where he wants to have you next. Bathrooms, cloakrooms, anywhere you both can have a bit of privacy. The danger of getting caught, the secrecy of it all, the fact that no else knows you’re having him… some nights, you can’t quite believe it’s real.

Ministry dinners are the worse. Everyone wants a piece of you. The forced interactions leave you exhausted, but your eyes follow him around, waiting. By the time everyone is done with you, you’re worn thin. That’s when he gives you that look and he leaves discreetly. You don’t take long to follow him.

Most nights, you end up in his apartment. He has you on his couch, your back to his chest; once against the front door, in a frantic, uncontrolled fuck, in which you beg him to make you come; and that one time in his kitchen, your hands scrambling for purchase on the expensive marble of his counter, as he ate you out at his leisure. There were tears in your eyes as you came, biting on your own hand to keep from screaming.

But mostly, he takes you on his bed. Slow and purposeful. He learns your ways, he takes your cock in hand and works you up until you’re babbling, incoherent, _ready_ for him. He never asks you to stay the night, so you usually leave around 4 am. You fall into your bed and sleep takes over you. You always think it will be the last time, but weeks turn to months. You are at his beck and call and you don’t mind, you just want whatever you can get.

Tonight, it’s not the usual pub night. It’s Guernsey's birthday, some witch from Magical Sports. You must have exchanged the total of three words with her in your life, but that did not stop her from inviting you and the whole Ministry staff for drinks, including the Unspeakables, Hermione’s and Malfoy’s lot. True to their name, they don’t speak much (except for Hermione), don’t mingle (the idea of Malfoy mingling is a joke in itself), but yet here they are, three witches, two wizards, drinks in hand.

Malfoy is by the counter, speaking to a tall witch with a snake tattoo curling around her wrist. You think she’s an Unspeakable too, but you only saw her once before. They don’t call it the Department of Mysteries for nothing, Ron usually says. The fact that you don’t know what Malfoy does when he’s not fucking you, leaves you in a mist of curiosity and uneasiness. He is good at his work, that much you know from Hermione. You’ve seen him do wandless magic like it’s nothing at all. You love the feeling of his magic on you, but that’s the kind of thinking that doesn’t get you anywhere. Right now, he looks completely enthralled in conversation with that witch. You want to know what interests him so. Out of bed, he never talks to you. It makes you feel like a fucktoy; maybe he doesn’t think you have anything interesting to say. You feel way out of his league, so it’s probably for the best. You force yourself to look away, to focus on something else.

At some point during that night, you manage to have some actual fun. Everyone ends up drinking way too much, but you keep to two beers. You’d rather be sober, just in case… Guernsey is in the middle of recounting a joke involving Kingsley and although you’ve listened to it three times already, it never ceases to make you laugh. You turn around, to see if he’s finding it funny too. But he’s gone, nowhere to be seen.

Now that you won’t have it, you realise you were only here for the faint chance of going home with him. Your mouth has a bitter taste. The witch he was talking to is deep in conversation with Hermione. Maybe he left with someone else. He didn’t try to catch your eye like usual.

You pretend to pay attention to what Ron is saying, but he’s drunk anyway, so you give him some excuse about leaving and head for the door.

The wind bites at your skin. It's been raining all night, a light, persistent, soft spatter, but right now the sky is clear. You notice the full moon for the first time. A circle of light, making every surface shine too bright. Your glasses get spattered by some lost drops of rain as you walk down the street, your steps echoing too loud. You’re sure he’s already left, Disapparated, but something keeps you walking. There’s a dark, desert dead-end street to your left. It looks empty but for the vulture of an upturned, abandoned umbrella, stuffed half inside a garbage bin. It looks eerily like the wings of a Thestral, metallic and somber, bringing back unwanted memories.

You turn to leave, but something else catches your eye. Down the street, the light of the full moon catches on a familiar white strand of hair. He’s leaning against a wall, a cigarette dangling from his lips. For a terrible second you think he’s with someone else. But then his head turns and he sees you. He’s alone.

You walk towards him, not knowing what you’ll say or do when you get there.

He has one foot against the wall, his jaw half hidden by the upturned collar of his long grey jacket. As you reach him, he takes another slow drag of his cigarette, the tip shining red.

The moon stands watch to the both of you, alone in the street. In the semi-darkness all your dreams can come true. Even him. You’re so close now, you can see the tiny drops of rain on his nose and on his hair. All the questions you had leave your mind at once.

He opens his coat, then his hand drops to his trousers. You watch him unbutton and unzip with his left hand. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at you, exhaling the smoke.

You take another step and drop to your knees. It’s cold and wet and you couldn’t care less. You palm him through his pants. He’s not fully hard yet, but he’s getting there. Your mouth waters.

You are filled with the need to please him. It’s all encompassing. You pull down his pants, freeing his cock. You take it in your hand. It’s a thing of beauty, you think, your hand tight around it. You know it’s going to fit the length of your mouth and throat so perfectly. His thumb brushes your lips. He’s still holding the cigarette, dangerously close to your face. He holds it so that you can take a drag. You do, your lips closing around the same spot his were, just seconds before. You exhale, in a daze. Your mouth forms the shape of an O over the head of his cock. You go down on him, just like that. His hips snap forward instantly, his cock sinking into your mouth. You suck him in the slowest way you can, wanting to feel him getting hard. You love that he’s still smoking, the cigarette on its way to his mouth. His other hand finds your hair. His fingers tighten there. His head drops against the wall. The sight of him, lost like this, the pressure of his cock, his hand in your head — it’s all too good.  

Anyone walking past could see you now. On your knees, stuffed full with him. The thought makes you harder than it should. You’re dizzy and thirsty and there’s an ache in your chest that hurts you deeper when his hand brushes your cheek and stays there. His eyes are downcast, impossible to read.

Your hands find the wall behind him. You keep your palms there for balance, relaxing your throat around him. You want him to fuck you and that much must be clear for he gives you a dark look and his hips snap forward with purpose. His hand goes back to your head and keeps you in place as he sinks into you. The feeling is glorious. You think that if he keeps this up, you might come in your pants again, untouched.

The cigarette drops from his fingers, forgotten, and even though he’s completely silent, you feel it. He tenses up, his cock hits the back of your throat and he spills. He tastes salty, bitter. You drink him down, watching his face as he bites down on his lip, his hands shaking on your hair.

You pull back, your cock aching inside your pants. You’re not expecting anything else, but his thumb drags across your cheek and collects a drop of his come from the corner of your mouth. He slicks your lips with it and then pulls you up and kisses you hard, his hands on the collar of your jacket. It’s so unexpected, you make a surprised noise. He tastes of Firewhisky and now of his come, too. It’s too much, not enough. Your head spins. The words are out before you think them.

‘Come to mine?’

He considers you for a moment. You never asked this before, for fear of getting turned down. Not for the first time, you wonder what goes on inside his head. Does he want you? Is this just a bit of fun and games? Is he bored? What does he want from you? When will it end? Because you know it will.

‘Yes,’ he says.

The single word snaps you out of your misery.

He cleans himself up, tucks himself in. In under a minute, he already looks all prim and proper.

As for you… you probably look like someone’s just fucked the hell out of your mouth.

‘Apparate us?’ He asks.

His question makes you feel like he’s allowing you to take the lead, even though it’s probably just the proper wizarding etiquette.

You nod. Your hand trembles on the hilt of your wand.

His arm comes around your waist.

You both feel the pull of Apparition.

 

*

 

You land on your living room. You thought it better than Apparating directly to your room. You want to give him the option. You ask him if he wants anything. He just stares at you, like your question is absurd. You take your coat off and drop it off on a chair. He does the same.

You feel a sudden calm. You unbutton your collar and sit down on your sofa.

‘Make yourself comfortable,’ you say.

He stares at you from across the room. It’s impossible to know what he’s thinking or what he’s going to do.

He walks over to you and straddles you.

‘Oh,’ you say. But what you’re thinking is: This is it. The impossibility of predicting him. This is what you’ve been missing.

‘Is this fine?’ he asks, his fingers dragging over your back.

You laugh. Your nose brushes his neck. You inhale.

‘I’m not complaining.’

Your hands drop to his arse. He presses closer to you. He gestures to your glasses.

‘Can I?’

You nod. He takes the glasses off your face, sets them at the coffee table. He feels different tonight. More real. He kisses you first. You’re both fully clothed and it’s still the most erotic thing you ever done. You kiss until you’re both hard and you’re panting on his ear, about to beg him to fuck you. He smiles against your mouth and kisses you hard, deeper, grinding against you. He’s warm, delicious, he lets you touch him everywhere as you kiss. He clings to you and you want to believe that he needs this as much as you do. That he needs you. You break the kiss and search his eyes. They’re soft grey, clearer around the edges, bright in the dimmed lights of your living room. You think he might look away any time now, but he doesn’t. You lift your hand and touch his jaw. You can’t stop yourself from following the lines of his face, letting your hand be scratched by his stubble. You’re about to say something very stupid. You know this thing between you and him is against all odds, against all probability, really. You don’t tell any of your friends because you know what they’d say. It makes no fucking sense.

You realise you stopped moving. Lost inside your own thoughts. He’s looking at you.

‘Are you tired?’ he asks

It’s such a simple question, but it takes your breath away. You shake your head.

‘Not for this,’ you say, which is the truth. Work has been hell. Every waking hour has been hell, except for this. _Him_.

You kiss his neck. Then you whisper:

‘Just fuck me.’

You’re both good at keeping away from things that might make this too complicated. You show him to your room.

That night, there’s something different about the way he fucks you. He’s fucked you hard and brutally many times before; he’s also been slow and gentle before. This time, he takes you hard and fast, no prep, your face down on the mattress. You’re surprised at how fast you both come. He then makes you lie on your back and works you open again with his fingers, sucking you until you feel like you’re floating out of your body. You come hard down his throat. You close your eyes just for a little while, your nose in his hair, his hands on your waist.

He’s still there the next morning, lying in your rumpled sheets. He didn’t mean to, of course. You’ve seen how many extra hours he puts in at work, and you doubt he ever sleeps much. He’s as exhausted as you feel. You don’t dare to move for fear of waking him, of making him aware. Of what, you don’t even know.

You fall asleep again and you’re awaken by the sound of him paddling to your bathroom. It’s the simplicity of it, the weird familiarity of it that shakes you. You close your eyes. It’s right there, behind your eyelids. You allow it to wash over you. The second you say it in your head, you know it’s the truth.

You open your eyes and he’s there, on the doorway.

Naked and silent.

 

*

 

After that, you don’t see him for three weeks. You might have thought it’s because you didn’t cross paths, but you’re pretty sure he’s been avoiding you.

You think of going to his apartment, knock on his door and confront him. To say what, you don’t quite know, but that never stopped you before. You have half a mind to do it, when you spot him leaving the usual pub night with a good-looking man you never saw before. It hits you just then that this thing between you was never exclusive. You get mad at yourself for forgetting it and from then on you dive into work.

You take on every case, you work extra hours, you file all your reports, you go on cases abroad and you try to get him out of your mind. You work yourself to exhaustion and go back to the sleeping potions, trying formula after new formula, until Hermione gets suspicious and drills you with so many questions you end up confessing everything. You don’t tell her you’re in love with him, but you’re pretty sure she gets there by herself. Not even Hermione can help you with this one.

Then, one night, you end up telling Ron about it and it surprises you that he already knows — and not because Hermione told him. _I saw the way you looked at him, mate_ , he says. The fact that your friends know doesn’t ease the pain, but instead makes it all the more real.

It starts as an ache in your chest whenever he leaves, whenever something — _anything_ — reminds you of him — _anywhere_ , _everywhere_. Without him, you can’t sleep.

You go to Paris on a three-day case assignment. You come back with a mind to take a long bath and floo in sick for the rest of the week.

You’re already warm and clean, in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, searching the house like mad for a flask of sleeping potion when the doorbell rings.

No one ever calls on you this late. Hermione and Ron always Floo you first.

You open the door and he’s there.

You’re so speechless that you let him in without a word. He walks down the corridor, you follow him. You barely had time to look at his face. He’s standing in the middle of your living room, looking round at everything like he’s only now seeing it for the first time.

All the exhaustion you’ve been feeling settles on your shoulders. You decide on the spot that if he comes closer and tries to take off your clothes, you’re going to tell him to piss off and then you’re probably also gonna tell him everything else.

You cross your arms, keep your mouth shut and wait as his eyes travel from the pictures hanging on your walls, to the bundled up blanket on your sofa. You know your house is messy, but it’s comfortable and it’s yours. You’re filled quite suddenly with a burning feeling. Let him judge you. Let him judge you and you’ll finally know what he thinks of you. Why _this_ could never work.

He finally looks at you, but there’s no judgement in his eyes, in fact, you don’t quite know what you’re finding there. He looks infinitely tired, fragile.

‘I can't sleep.’

His voice tugs at your chest. It’s the most personal thing he’s ever told you. For a while, you think he’s going to leave it at that.

He takes one step forward, his fingers flex uncomfortably at his sides. He looks at the lonely cup of tea on the table. Then at you again.

‘It’s better when I’m here.’

The admission is not what you expected.

‘You mean?...’

He makes a noise with his throat, a sort of strangled thing, his eyes averted from yours.

‘With you.’

His mouth twists, he presses his lips together. He looks mad at himself.

‘I mean with you. I sleep better with you. I feel better the next day. I hate the next night, back at my apartment. When I’m not —’ He stops, fights himself on the next word, but for a while nothing comes out.

Your heart feels dislodged from your chest. He gives a wry laugh.

‘Fuck it. What I mean is everytime I’m not here I wonder what this is, what this means, because it’s starting to mean something and if it doesn’t feel like that to you, we should just end it, whatever this-’

He stops dead, breathing hard, his eyes wide. It’s like he’s used up all his words.

You just stand there breathing, watching his conflicted expression change, reacting to your silence. His eyes go cold.

‘This was a fucking mistake,’ he says as he turns to leave.  

You grab his arm.

‘Stay the night.’

It’s the first thing that comes to your mind. His mouth clicks shut, but he’s waiting for you to say something, anything. You try to order your thoughts.  

‘Three weeks. It’s been three weeks since—' You feel so fucking stupid saying it out loud. 'I’m — I can’t believe I counted it—’

But when you look at him, he just looks scared. He’s afraid of what you might say, like you’re the wild card for him, not the other way around. It makes you hope.

‘Why won’t you talk to me?’

He shrugs.

‘I don’t do relationships.’

‘Well, you’re doing me. You started doing me almost six months ago. Half a year. You’re probably doing other people too, I know— I saw you leaving with that man and I—’

He cuts you off.

‘That was nothing.’

‘You went home with him.’

Even as you say it, you realise how much it hurts you. For a while, there’s only silence and the clock on your wall ticking down the seconds. He’s looking at an empty spot on the wall when he answers.

‘He wanted to. I said no. We went our separate ways. That’s when I—’

He searches for his cigarette silver case, fishes it from his coat pocket, but just shuffles it between his hands.

‘That’s when you what?’

He turns away from you, then turns back again.

‘I… Merlin, I can’t do this.’ He gestures towards your couch. ‘Can I?’

You just nod, feeling at a loss.

‘I’m not —’ he looks at his own hands, never at you. ‘I’m not like you.’

You feel like laughing, really.

‘You mean, desperate?’

His lips twist up in a grimace.

‘I mean — I’m fucked up, Harry.’

You take a sit on your coffee table, in front of the couch, facing him.

‘I’m addicted to sleeping potions.' You say. 'Since the end of the War.’

He nods.

‘I noticed the flask…’ He says quietly. ‘I just didn’t think that—’

‘I don’t take them when I’m with you. I don’t need them as badly. But apparently, I need you.’

You’re watching his hands as you say this. They twist on his lap, the silver case falling on the couch. It’s the first time he’s sitting so close to you and you’re not fucking. You don’t even know what to do with your own hands.

‘That’s probably unhealthy as fuck.’ He says, finally.

This time, you actually laugh.

‘Probably.’

He glances at you. There’s a trace of anticipation somewhere in his eyes. He takes a deep breath.

‘I know we’re not exclusive or anything—’ He begins, but you can't help but stop him.

‘You think I’ve been with other people? There’s nobody, Draco. There hasn’t been.’

It feels good to admit it. The words travel the length of your body, shaking you.

‘God.’ This time, he’s the one to wax religious. ‘You have to admit this is the weirdest shit—’

You didn’t mean to. You really didn’t. But the sight of him like this makes you want to do things. Your hand is on his collar and you pull him closer, kissing him. You pull back just as fast. He gazes back at you, his lips wet, his expression a little dazed.

‘I thought you wanted to talk,’ he deadpans.

But there’s soft amusement under his words and it warms you all up, until you’re heady with it.

‘Are you staying?’

You mean tonight, but you also mean more and you think he might know it. He breathes out.

‘Yes.’

His hands slip over your thighs and you don’t need anything else. Already his arms are coming around your waist and you’re climbing on top of him.

‘We have time.’

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Elektrik People's song, Fuckin With My Heart. Hope you liked this. Leave me a comment if you feel like it. :)


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